Reality Check
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: After Season Six. Having trouble sleeping? Me too.


She had dropped a book at her bedside, and left a glass of water there, with a pill – just in case. But Carrie had fallen asleep without it, and had slept the whole night, it seemed. She had slept in her clothes, everything, even her gray blazer. But now, rolling over in the cool morning light seeping in around the edges of her windowshades, she was glad of the extra warmth. The bedroom had cooled in the night, and she hadn't turned the furnace in the townhouse on yet.

In the bedroom next door, Carrie could hear Franny roll over, and the jingle of her lovey, Hop, as she resettled. It was around 6 AM, she guessed. No need to wake the kid yet. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she wasn't even surprised to see the tall figure standing next to the window, looking out over the top of the blinds – that's how tall he was. He held a cup off coffee in each hand, and turned to offer her one.

"Quinn," she said, her statement both a question and a fact. "A quiet night."

"Yeah," he said, seating himself in the brocade chair next to the bedside table. He sipped coffee. "Nothing doing."

"Well, that's good," Carrie said, sitting up. "Boredom, quiet…"

"A quiet life," Quinn said. "That's what we never got."

"A normal life," Carrie said. She rubbed herself under the arm where her shoulder holster had dug in. "I'm not used to relaxing."

"I could get used to this," Quinn, eyeing her steadily over the top of the coffee mug.

She sat up, took the cup, and took a sip. She looked Quinn over as she did so – he had clearly been up for a number of hours. His hair game was an A+, short and stylish, his navy shirt was pressed razor-crisp around the collar and placket, and he smelled good, even from several feet away. He must have used her Irish Spring. It suited him better than some heavy cologne. She wondered how it is he looked so clear-eyed, when he had just made the coffee a few minutes ago.

"So," Quinn said, running a finger around the top of the mug. "What's on the agenda?"

"Nothing," Carrie said immediately. "Well, nothing pressing. Franny has pre-school…"

"Mmm, nothing _pressing_ ," he said, eyeing her significantly.

"And, I need to call my sister. I'm almost done ironing out plans for the move. And for Thanksgiving."

Quinn hacked a short laugh. "Thanksgiving. I haven't had a real dinner on Thanksgiving since twenty-oh…. Six? Seven? And that was in Iraq, if I recall correctly."

From the next room, they heard Franny giggle in her sleep. Carrie and Quinn eyeballed each other and smiled, knowingly.

"Wonder what she's dreaming about," Quinn mused, looking down at his neat black Hugo Boss oxfords.

"Probably that movie," Carrie said. She had a dim memory of it, it seemed, but she knew Quinn had taken Franny to see that awful My Little Pony movie. So she wouldn't have to, he had said, smiling. But she knew he enjoyed it with her, and watched out for her like a hawk. "You bought her too much candy, Quinn."

"My privilege," he said meaningfully.

"Well," Carrie said. "I don't need to get up yet, do I?"

"Nope," Quinn said. "You can stay in bed."

A twinge in her stomach, then. _That_ sounded so good. Some more time in bed. Maybe with Quinn, this time. She hadn't invited him in, not yet. They were just getting reacquainted. But he looked at her, and when she looked back invitingly, he returned the gaze. He looked calm as a rock and crazy about her, like before. Way before. But…

 _Something is wrong._

"Carrie?" Quinn said. "You alright?"

She stared back at him, and didn't answer. She was so inside herself, so glad to see him, so quietly delighted to feel the situation of peace and plenty, that she'd not analyzed it at all. But…

 _Something was not right._

"I'm…" she looked at Quinn. She thought a moment, looking at his hands, his face, his clothes.

 _He's well. He's like before. What the fuck?_ She almost had put it together. But didn't quite have it figured… and she didn't want to. She didn't want to realize, she didn't want to know.

No limp. No stroke damage. No messed-up speech, no curled hand. No shaggy hair and bad hygiene. This was the old Quinn, the one before Berlin. The Quinn she followed to the truck that night, so long ago.

"I'm ok," Carrie said, lying back on the pillow, closing her eyes again. "I'm fine." _Please God, I don't want to wake up. Not yet._

"Well, good," Quinn said, and leaning up and over, set the coffee down on the table. "Because I think this is your wake-up call, Carrie."

She opened her eyes again, and saw him bend over her, lean and long, blue eyes sparkling with interest.

"Please," Carrie said, now knowing. Trying not to wake up.

"Oh, yes," this Quinn said, but even as he said the words, his voice grew thinner and evaporated.

"Yes, I've been waiting to do this again for a long time."

Just before his lips would have come into contact with hers, he took her by the shoulders and shook her.

* * *

"Carrie? _Carrie_ ," a voice said emphatically.

She shook off the hands, pressing her shoulders down, and collapsed back into the bed. It was still dark out, but turning towards dawn. A very tired-looking and hungover Max sat at the bedside, his hand still concernedly on her arm, frowning over Carrie's rumpled figure, face turned away, a tear running down her cheek, mouth open in a silent howl.

"For Pete's sake. Wake up," Max fretted. "You had a bad dream."

"No," Carrie moaned, opening her eyes.

"You were crying in your sleep," Max remarked, standing.

"I didn't have a _bad_ dream," she insisted.

"Ok," Max said. "Whatever you say. Look, it's still early." He sighed out a prodigious amount of liquor fumes, and stated flatly. "I'm going back to bed. You be alright?" He found that the room was still spinning a bit, and his stomach lurched alarmingly. His concern for her was evenly balanced by his need to lie down again and sleep it off.

"Yeah," Carrie said, trying to sound offhand about it. "Of course."

"Max?"

He had already turned blearily back to the hall, headed for the guest bedroom, but turned back at her word.

"What?"

"Do you think it's possible to repeat a dream? Or continue one?"

Max gave the careful answer that a fatigued parent might give a child. "Sometimes. Maybe. If you go right back to sleep," he suggested. Hearing no response, he shuffled back past Franny's hallway nightlight, and lay back down, alone.

Carrie lay still and alone, too, but she did not sleep. She hardly blinked as the light outside the window went from silver, to gray, to off-white, the dirty buff-colored clouds hanging low, and looking ready to spit snow at any moment.

Far off in the distance, a car horn honked and a siren blared briefly, and drove on. Drops of rain drizzled down the windows outside, throwing shadows on her face, as the sun rose over the awakening neighborhood.


End file.
